Coconuts
by Suz2
Summary: Sequel to 'May Way'. Darien has to deal with Bobby's ambivalence about Darien's feelings for him, then receives another emotional blow from Claire. PG for adult concepts and slight slashiness.


Title: Coconuts

Author/pseudonym: Suz

Fandom: Invisible Man

Paring: Bobby/Dairen

Rating: PG for adult concepts, maybe language

Status: new/complete

Archive: WWOMB okay, all others ask

E-mail address: suzinsf@earthlink.net

Series/Sequel: yes, third in the missing scene arc from New Stuff started in 'Count On It' and 'My Way'

Other websites: Fanfiction.net, QS archive

Disclaimers: Don't own 'em, but I like to pretend I do.

Notes: Some angst and emotional owies. Many, many thanks to Pipsqueak who keeps pushing me to make it right!

Summary: Darien must come to terms with Bobby's ambivalence regarding a deepening relationship, and he receives both help in coping and another emotional blow from Claire

Warnings: none. 

The

Invisible Man

"Coconuts"

(Aftermath of New Stuff missing scenes and tag)

"See, the pineapple is what makes it," Hobbes tells Claire, and I stare down into the milky whiteness of my fourth piña colada without really caring. Actually, I'd really rather be swilling scotch. I have every intention of getting totally and completely wasted. As fast as possible. An ounce of rum - or is it tequila? - every half hour ain't gonna do it for me any time soon.

I try to ignore the obvious moves Hobbes has been making on the Keeper since we got here, wishing I was just about anywhere else. 

It feels weird. Even though we're back together, what used to be a team, isn't. Not any more. It hurts. I hadn't figured on that.

Bobby's been ignoring me all afternoon since we got here. That hurts, too. Hell. Right now, everything hurts. I keep going over what I could have done differently, considering the circumstances, and I keep coming back to the same answer. Not much. Which isn't exactly making me feel any better.

"Darien?" Claire's now-slurred British accent is giggling in my ear. "Are you alright? You're very quiet," she chuckles.

I throw her a look, trying to avoid meeting Hobbes' eyes over her shoulder. "Fine," I say a little shortly. "It's just kinda hard to get a word in edgewise with the two of you jabbering away, here," I excuse myself.

"Aw, ignore him, Claire, he's just in one of his moods, ya know?" Hobbes interjects. The jovial note in his voice doesn't mesh with the sadness in his eyes as I glance at him, ready make some smart remark. Only whatever glib little comment I was gonna come back with evaporates out of my head in the face of Hobbes' expression. He looks away first, and I sigh. Again. It's about the only thing I've contributed to the conversation since we got here.

"Well, snap out of it, Darien," Claire grins at me, jabbing me lightly in the shoulder with her fist. "We have to have a plan!"

"Plan?" I ask stupidly.

"See, I told you he wasn't listening," she says over her shoulder to Hobbes, then looks back at me. "Darien." She sounds like she's trying to be stern, but the giggle-fit that hits her on the heels even the small amount of alcohol she's drunk keeps spoiling the effect. "Bobby and I think we need to present a uniflied - _unified_ - front on the issue of the raises we want. Now that the counteragent is no longer necessary, a good bit of the budget has been freed up. What I think is, the two of you should receive standard GS-12 salaries as agents, and I can leverage a 20 or 25% pay increase out of the old tightwad. But if we're going to pull this off, we need to stick together. Right?" Claire asks cheerfully.

"Right," Bobby agrees mockingly, not looking my way as he sips his piña colada.

"Is it just me, or doesn't it bug the rest of you that no matter what we do, the Fat Man's always a step ahead of us?" I ask, still brooding on the Official's little revelation in the office a couple of hours ago. 

"Fawkes, when you've been at this as long as I have, you'll get used to the idea that the boss's job is to maximize his - or her -" he adds for Claire's benefit, "-assets. We're assets. Therefore, my friend, we must be maximized." The defeatist sarcasm is drowned as he takes another sip, staring down into his glass for a minute. "That means playing the hand he's got to get the results he wants. And whatever else you wanna say about the Chief, he wants to see Chrysalis shut down just as much as we do. They are all-around bad news, pal. Bad news with a capital 'B'."

"I guess it's just me, then," I say sharply. "I'm still naïve enough to believe in freedom of choice. Free will. All that existential stuff."

Hobbes snorts. "You're workin' for the government now, Fawkes. Free will is for the rest of the citizens. We're soldiers, pal. We do what we're told." That 'party line' bullshit is pissing me off, but he's still not looking at me, engrossed in the icy slush of his drink as he swirls it gently so coconut milk coats the inside of the glass

"Yeah, maybe back in the day; maybe that's what you wanted the Fat Man to think, Hobbes, but I know you better than that. Okay, so you're a soldier. But didn't you ever hear the old sixties' mantra: 'Question Authority'?" I shift on my stool, glaring past Claire at him. "Let's face it, the 'Fish is wa-a-ay too used to getting his way. So if we're gonna actually pull this off, we're gonna have to do more than follow orders."

"That's the spirit, Darien," Claire beams at me approvingly.

"I just don't see us gettin' anywhere with this," Bobby responds pessimistically. "You guys didn't even bother to let me know what you were gonna pull this afternoon," he sulks.

So that's what's buggin' him He feels left out. Well, tough. He asked for it with the bait-and-switch he pulled last night. He's the one who told me to make up my own mind, for god's sake. And here I sit, still way too far away from drunk, thinking about the way I've been manipulated at every turn.

Even Hobbes did it. Maybe not on purpose, I don't think, but he let me think. 

Okay. Not fair. It was pretty much my own fault, I guess, wanting something I hadn't even been willing to admit to myself, and letting him see it. The only thing Hobbes did was kiss me back. And I doubt we would've gotten to _that_ point if I hadn't told him what I'd learned about his stint with the FBI and laid him wide open. _So it serves you right, Fawkes_, I tell myself. You open up a guy like Hobbes that way, and the confusion could get you anything. Anything at all. I guess I'm just lucky I got kissed and not a bullet in the head. It could've gone either way if I hadn't been careful. Except I wasn't careful enough, because he told me to get lost.

Well, not in so many words, but it ended up being the same general message. Crap_. 'Don't come back just for me_,' he told me. Meaning nothing was gonna change between us if I did, so not to get my hopes up. The problem with that is that every instinct I have is telling me that Hobbes was interested. It wasn't just surprise that gave him that beautiful hard-on last night. He kissed me back. On the couch, and then again in the lobby of his building, right out in public, for god's sake. What the hell am I supposed to _do_ with that, huh? It's not exactly something a guy can just forget, a kiss like the ones he laid on me. You can't take something like that back. It doesn't work that way. At least not for me. So what am I gonna do about it? I mean something that won't make me crazy. How do I convince my deadly little partner to let me into his bed? Or his heart, for that matter? 

"Dah-ree-en!" Claire's tone tells me she's been repeating my name for a while, now.

"Sorry, Keepy," I answer, trying not to let my distraction ruin her drunken brainstorming session. Of course, it'd take more'n just a bad mood on my part to rain on her parade when she's been boozing it up

"You're not being very much fun this evening," she scolds me. "Now. Will you PLEASE pay attention? I think we need to come up with specific contracts. One for each of us. Ones that the Official will have to sign if he wants us to work for him." She peers from me to Bobby and back again. "You didn't sign that contract Albert presented you with, right?"

I shake my head negatively, confirming that. "It'd be a cold day in hell before I put my head back in _that_ noose," I tell her.

"Good," she smiles, loopy with the margaritas she's had. "That means we have some leverage. I know you and I spoke last night about what our terms would be, if we went back, but we need to have Bobby with us in this. Make it clear to the Official that it's a package deal. Because we are assets who have enough freedom to allocate ourselves elsewhere, if he doesn't play by our rules."

I glance past Claire to where Bobby sits, slowly opening and shutting the little paper umbrella that came in his drink, as if he was doing his best to shut out her words.

"I don't think Hobbes thinks he has the luxury of negotiating," I venture cautiously. This is an argument that almost cost me his friendship once already. I made the mistake of trying to drag him along when I made my temporary move to the FBI a few weeks ago. I know Bobby doesn't think he's got much in the way of options, at this point in his career, and I know he's not too keen on what he thinks of as a handout, so that doesn't leave him all that many choices.

Hobbes' jaw clenches, but he doesn't say anything.

"Nonsense," Claire says dismissively. "Bobby has every bit as much to gain by negotiating as we do," she insists. "He's your partner. Where you go, he goes. If you make that clear to the Official, he will be forced to see reason."

Hobbes snorts skeptically, but doesn't say anything else.

"Maybe Bobby doesn't want to work with me anymore," I suggest bitterly. "Maybe the challenge is gone. He's broken in the greenhorn, babied me through the temper tantrums, held my hand through all the bitching and moaning about the Agency. And now I'm back in. For pretty much the same reasons he is. Even if neither of us has all that many options at the moment. Maybe Hobbes isn't up for that; the equal partners thing," I speculate, not bothering to squelch the self pity.

"Equal, huh? You think we're really here for the same reasons, my friend? Well let me tell you something ," Bobby starts, annoyed and not bothering to hide it.

Claire puts her hand over his mouth in a move that surprises both of us into silence. "Honestly, you two! What on earth has gotten into you?" She demands, as annoyed as Hobbes was a second ago. "Yes, you're both equally noble, equally stalwart, and all that other rot," she goes on impatiently. "And you're both behaving like a pair of five-year-olds! Now. Bobby. From the way I understand it, you came to the Agency as a last ditch effort to salvage your career in intelligence. Right?" she asks, removing her hand from his mouth.

His expression has gone cold, lips narrowed to a thin, grim line. "Thanks for summing it up so nicely," he snaps. That alone is enough to tell me he's smarting under the clinical microscope Claire is using on him.

"And you -" she turns those stormy gray eyes on me. "You frittered away the first thirty years of your life in irresponsible and frankly illegal behavior that put you in prison three times, for heaven's sake! The deal your brother offered you was your last chance at making something of yourself, Darien. In my book, that makes you equals in the 'victims of circumstance' sense. Now stop sniveling, both of you!" she glares back and forth between us.

"Failures-R-Us," Hobbes mutters. "So what's _your_ excuse, Keepy? Why hang out with misfits and losers, miss four-graduate-degrees-and-who-knows-what-IQ? Huh?" 

I stare at him in amazement. It's the first time I've _ever_ heard him turn on Claire. Fortunately, it doesn't seem to faze her any. "Robert, you are not a nice drunk," she informs him shortly, but without any hurt feelings as far as I can tell.

He snorts again, ironically. "Maybe that's cuz I'm nowhere near drunk," he informs her sarcastically. _Well, that makes both of us, then,_ I think.

"Well, maybe we'd better fix that," she says and flags down the bartender with an imperious wave, putting her elbow on the bar and leaning over it to fix a bleary eye on the grinning barkeeper as she fishes her wallet out of her purse, where it sits on the empty stool between us. "Please pour my two cantankerous escorts a double scotch each, will you?" she commands, promptly knocking her purse to the floor. "Oh, bum," she says and nearly falls onto the floor after it as she tries to reach it without getting up.

I grab her, steadying her, and slide off my stool to retrieve the purse, scooping up the scattered debris that spilled out of it. I hand it to her, making sure she's got a good grip on it before I let go and hoist myself back onto my own stool. She pays for the drinks and I eye the amber liquid thankfully. This is more like it.

"Cheers," she says, holding up her half-finished margarita in a toast.

Hobbes grunts and I clink my tumbler against her glass carefully, then take a swallow, feeling the alcohol burn across my tongue and down my throat with stinging heat.

"Now will one of you please tell me what is going on between the two of you?" she asks after licking the salt off her lips. "Before I have to knock your heads together? This isn't like either of you, this sulky squabbling. Now kiss and make up. We have plans to make."

__

Kiss and make up I wish. Boy, do I wish. But Hobbes made it pretty clear it wasn't going to happen, so not much point in fantasizing about it. Except my dick has other ideas, aching with a dull sort of throb that basically hasn't gone away since the episode in Bobby's lobby last night. Even a long hand job after I got off the phone with Claire last night, arranging to meet her for breakfast, hasn't dulled that particular pain. I catch Hobbes rueful expression across Claire's shoulder and look away, not wanting him to read my state of mind from my own expression.

Claire babbles on for a while longer, Hobbes and I not contributing much beyond an occasional nod, until she slugs me on the arm in annoyance. "Darien, Bobby, you haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" she demands irritably, then spoils the effect by giggling. "All right, I can tell when I'm not wanted," she chuckles unexpectedly and slides off her stool, weaving a little. "I'm going home," she announces. "To someone who listens to me," she adds. "Besides, it's almost Pavlov's dinner time."

"Whoa-whoa-whoa, Keepy. You're not plannin' on drivin', are ya?" Hobbes demands, reaching out to steady her.

"Of course I am," she smirks confidently at him. "I've only had two drinks!"

"And they went straight to that blonde head of yours," I mumble under my breath, reaching for her other arm as she twitches free of Hobbes.

"Pardon me? Excuse me?" she slurs in my direction. "Was that some remark about my hair color?" she puts her hands on her hips and glares at me. "I'm perfectly fine, I'll have you know," she insists stubbornly. Her purse slides down her shoulder, the weight almost tipping her over.

"Uh-huh," I agree sarcastically. "You're just fine." Claire starts to wrestle the purse back up onto her shoulder, but not before I reach into it and grab the car keys. "Hobbes, call her a cab," I request, but he's already beaten me to the punch, dialing the number of a cab company on his cell phone while I've been fishing in her purse.

"You two really are the most dreadful spoilsports," she complains as I settle the strap higher on her shoulder.

"Nah, we just don't want the mastermind of our little palace revolt having an accident on the way home, that's all," I assure her. "Don't worry, I'll drop your car off on my way home. Hobbes can pick me up from there and leave me off at my place, right?" I ask over her shoulder of my partner. "Or I can call a cab, if he's got other plans," I continue when he doesn't nod or answer right away.

"You are a dear, you know that, sweetheart?" she smiles hugely, dimples creasing her cheeks. I really should make a point of getting her drunk more often. She's a knock out when she's not being all scientific and serious.

"Don't I know it," I answer as I see the cabby poke his head in the door of the bar. "C'mon, princess, your carriage awaits," I say as I steady her way across the sticky floor. Herb's isn't exactly a tourist spot; not a fern bar by any stretch of the imagination. More a working class joint where the local union guys might come to hang out. Still, it's not even five in the afternoon, so there's practically no one here but us, and the path to the door is clear enough to avoid mishaps. I get Claire settled into the cab and go back inside as she's driven off, putting her keys in my pocket.

Hobbes has disappeared. I take a look around and find him in a booth in the back, where it's dim and private. A good place for brooding. Only I'm not in the mood any more.

Unfortunately, he's taken my scotch with him, so I slide on in across the table from him, picking up where I left off in the 'getting drunk' department.

"She all safe and sound?" Hobbes asks belligerently. "You make sure the driver's gonna take care of her? She's pretty plastered, so if anything happens to her ...," he pauses and I glower at him, waiting for him to threaten to disembowel me or something.

When he doesn't finish, I shrug. "I gave the cabby an extra five to make sure she got inside okay," I confirm, going back to nursing my drink

Hobbes nods slightly, not looking at me, no apology, nothing. Just focused single-mindedly on his own scotch.

"Look, Hobbes," I start after an awkward silence of several minutes. "You don't need to worry. I'm not gonna try anything funny, you know, like violating your honor or anything" I try to reassure him. 

His laugh is sharp, short and drowned in the swig of scotch he swallows. "I'd like to see you try," he mutters.

After the cold shoulder I've been getting all afternoon? I don't think so. "You're the one who made up the rules, Hobbes. You told me not to come back just because of you. So I didn't," I begin, only to have his dark eyes suddenly focus on me intently for the first time since we got here.

"So why _did_ you come back?" he asks bitterly. "And why the hell didn't you warn me?" he slams the flat of his hand onto the table top, making the glassware clatter and a nearby patron move further away from us, into the residual daylight still coming in through the front windows with their funky, textured amber glass.

"Warn you?" I demand disbelievingly. "You're the one who told me if I came back it had to be my choice, my reasons, and that I couldn't use you as an excuse. You can't have it both ways, pal!" I retort, starting to get really angry. "You're the one who said all he was to me was some easy lay, some excuse to get my rocks off without breaking any of the stupid Agency rules about 'need to know'!" I toss off my own scotch, ignoring the searing heat of the alcohol as it burns its way down my throat.

"That's not exactly what I said," Bobby answers, slowly, frowning at my angry explosion.

"Yeah, well, close enough," I snap, refusing to look at him. "I just wanna make it clear, here, that I can be a professional about this. I'm not gonna let what I feel keep me from doing the damned job, okay?" I insist, turning to glare at him.

"Yeah, right. And I'm the pope." Hobbes mumbles sarcastically. "Look, kid, you've never been able to keep what you feel separate from anything, especially the work. You really expect me to believe you're gonna start now? After the way you came on to me last night?"

I stare at him, anger smoldering in the center of my chest. This sounds like some major revisionist history going on. Like what happened last night was all my fault? Like he wasn't even there? Give me a break. "Yeah. I do. You may find this hard to believe, 'partner', but I've never pursued someone who doesn't want me. Not when they've made it as clear as you have, okay? So if you can't move past it, can't lighten up on me for telling you what you mean to me, then maybe now's the time to say so. Because if we're gonna work together like we did before, both of us are gonna have to get over last night. All I'm sayin' is, I have. I've moved on. You don't want what I want? Fine. Not the end of the world. You can't work with me cuz of it? Fine. But let me know now." I know I'm glaring, know I'm pushing him, but right now, I don't care. "It looks to me like it's your turn to decide what you're getting by stayin' with the Agency. And what you're not." It's getting to be a struggle to keep my voice pitched low enough that our little lover's spat isn't broadcast to the far corners of the bar, but I manage to keep it to a murmur, even though I wanna clock him for being such a prick. 

Hobbes makes shushing motions with his hands, peering around the dim corner we inhabit as if he expects ten guys with parabolic mikes to be eavesdropping on us. "Keep it down, will ya?" he hisses at me. "This isn't the place!"

"Well, this is where we _are_, pal. And for your information, I AM keeping it down. What, you're embarrassed to be seen with me all of a sudden? Don't want the world to know that the big, bad Bobby Hobbes has a partner who's in love with him? Fine. Excuse the hell outta me. I didn't know it was an issue of national security. From now on, I'll make sure to keep it under my hat," I hiss back and I slide out of the booth and away from him, turning my back on my partner, maybe my former partner, and walk out, leaving him sitting there staring after me.

The sun is setting when I reach the Agency parking lot and I look around for Claire's Jeep, finding it parked under a lamppost that's flickering to life. I deactivate the alarm and climb in behind the wheel, searching through the ring of Claire's keys for the ignition one. Which is when I realize I don't just have Claire's car keys, I have ALL of her keys. "Aw crap," I sigh. The Keeper is probably sitting on the doorstep of her condo, humming some British pub song and scaring her neighbors. I start the car and nose it out into evening traffic, heading for Claire's

**********

Maybe I'm psychic or something I think as I walk up the front walk to her condo to see her sitting on the step, back to the door, humming softly to herself. Well, at least she's not a mean drunk. "Hey, Keepy," I greet her quietly so as not to startle her.

"Darien! I'm glad you came. I forgot you had all my keys," she smiles up at me as I reach over her head and start trying keys in the locks. 

"Yeah, sorry about that. I didn't know that till I started to drive over here," I apologize.

She watches me interestedly, then starts grinning as I finally find the right key after trying all the ones on the ring. "I'd have expected some flashy bit of breaking and entering," she comments irrepressibly. "After all, you _are_ supposed to be a thief."

"Ha-ha-ha. Very funny, Claire," I say, scowling at her. "I'm the one with the keys, remember? B & E I only whip out on special occasions." Okay, so maybe she isn't a _mean_ drunk, but she's sure quick with the sarcasm.

She's peering past me at the parking lot as if watching for someone. "Where's Bobby?" she wants to know. "Isn't he going to give you a ride home?"

I shrug as the front door swings open, Pavlov yapping a greeting to his inebriated mistress. "I left him in the bar. It's his turn to do a little thinking," I tell her, not expecting her to have a clue what I'm talking about.

Sometimes she surprises me, though. She stares up at me, gathering her little dust mop of a dog into her arms. "What happened between the two of you last night, Darien?" she asks. "I take it you told him how you feel, and he didn't handle it well?"

I stare down at her in astonishment. "You sure you haven't been experimenting with those quicksilver-producing super bacteria again, Keepy? Or maybe Mei Lin's back pack?" I joke, trying to come to terms with the fact that Claire has obviously known what's going on with me for longer than I have. "Spyin' on your Kept isn't nice."

She snorts slightly, as unladylike a sound as I've ever heard from her. "Neither is spying on your Keeper. And if you recall, you did it first. Does the name 'Gloria' ring any bells?" she quirks an eyebrow at me with cheerful menace. "Honestly Darien. What do you take me for? A complete fool?" She eyes me and holds up a hand so I can haul her to her feet. "I've known you were in love with him for over a year," she informs me bluntly, and I gape at her.

"Huh?" I start. "How the hell did _you_ know that, when I didn't?" I demand, irritated, confused and suddenly _very_ anxious.

"Is this really a conversation you want to have out here?" she wants to know as she tucks Pavlov under one arm and steps inside. I stand there on the front steps for a minute, trying to regain my equilibrium after that little bombshell, and finally follow her in, shutting the door after myself. She's gone on ahead, clattering around in her kitchen, getting the dog his dinner. I drop into the white leather sofa in her livingroom and stare at the dark fireplace, not sure it's a conversation I want to have at all.

She joins me a few minutes later, carrying two glasses, a bottle of red wine and an opener. She hands me the bottle and the opener and settles onto the couch next to me. "Be a love and open that for me, will you?" she requests with the same imperiousness she used on the bartender at Herb's as she puts down the glasses on the coffee table. Obediently, I do as she asks, pulling the cork on what looks like a pretty good vintage Cabernet. Wine's not exactly my area of expertise, but, as the saying goes, I know what I like. Still, I don't know if this is such a hot idea, sitting here in the Keeper's livingroom, drinking wine with her, baring my soul to her. Who am I kidding? I _know_ it's not such a hot idea giving her the kind of ammunition that she's been known to use against me when the 'Fish demanded that she find ways to rein me in or squelch my independence. And this whole thing with Bobby is something I'm still trying to figure out myself.

"Darien, did you really think it was such a mystery?" she asks, taking the open bottle and pouring a generous measure into both glasses. She takes hers and sips from it. 

"It was to me," I tell her honestly enough.

"Forest for the trees," she sighs and smiles ruefully at me. 

"Huh?" I ask, confused all over again.

"Sweetheart, you and Bobby spend nearly every waking minute together. He has become your friend. Perhaps your best friend. Right?" she sips her wine, waiting for me to answer.

Eventually I nod. "So?"

"So, it's elementary, my dear Watson," she smiles, as if she'd just solved the grand unified field theory problem or something.

"Maybe you need to spell it out for those of us in slow class," I suggest ironically.

"Oh Darien, there's nothing slow about you, except perhaps in the romance department," she grins over the rim of her glass before putting it down. "After you were recruited into the QS9300 project by your brother, didn't you ever wonder why the Official teamed you with someone like Bobby?" She's peering at me quizzically, and the alcohol must be muddling her thinking, because she's making even less sense than she was a minute ago.

She sees my blank look as she settles against the back rest of the couch, tucking her feet up under her like a little kid. "When your brother died, Darien, you were more vulnerable than ever. Alone in a situation you were unequipped to deal with, a potentially life-threatening illness shadowing your future, a personal life in tatters, shall I go on? There was no one at the Agency you could consider an ally. A friend."

__

Yeah, so? I think to myself, just staring back at her.

She sighs patiently and goes on. "So the Official gave you one. He gave you Hobbes."

I shake my head. "He gave me Hobbes because he was the most experienced field agent he had, and he didn't want me getting myself killed in some stupid rookie move, that's why,. I don't think the buddy-thing was something he expected," I disagree.

"That's what he told you, yes. And it may even be true. But he teamed you with Bobby because of all the Agents he has, Bobby is the one instinct told him you would warm up to. The one you would come to trust the fastest. But even more than that, the Official trusted Hobbes to recognize your value to the Agency, and to recognize you as a kindred spirit. He knew Bobby would keep you alive, and teach you what you needed to know in order to survive at this business."

"Didn't I just say that?" I ask sarcastically. "Claire, the 'Fish stuck me with Hobbes because he could keep me alive. Period. End of story. It's nothing more complicated than that."

Claire shakes her head slightly, her opinion of my intelligence obviously being revised - downward. "Darien, by this time I would think you would know better than to underestimate the Official and his facility for long-range planning. He knows everything in either yours or Bobby's records, good, bad or otherwise. He knew you'd experimented with alternate sexual lifestyles, and that you'd been forced into behavior you might not otherwise have exhibited while in prison. And he certainly knew of the reasons for Hobbes' dismissal from the FBI-"

"Wait a minute there, Keeper," I interrupt, defensively. "That is none of your business, and it's none of his, either!"

"Don't be naïve, Darien," Claire stops me mid rant. "It's his job to know as much about both allies and enemies as possible. And while those particular tidbits are classified, they are hardly secret."

"Are you telling me that just because we'd both been raped, that fat bastard thought that was the basis for a beautiful friendship?" I snarl, putting my wineglass down with a thud on the table.

"No, darling, it's not that simple. Do you ever think about the things you and Bobby have in common?" she asks. "Does the sheer number of them ever make you wonder?"

"Wonder what?" I glare at her. "We don't _have_ anything in common," I argue.

She sips from her glass again before answering. "Are you being deliberately obtuse?" she asks me at last. "Or do you really know so little about your partner?" she's eyeing me skeptically, but in the face of my stubborn anger, I can see the disbelief give way to something else. "Don't the two of you ever talk? Really, Darien. If you want to have a real relationship, you need to learn how to get Bobby to open up to you a little more. Bobby's childhood was almost as troubled as yours, until a teacher stepped in to mentor him in high school. It wouldn't have taken all that much for him to have gone the route you did, become a thug, a mobster, begun associating with the type of people who would have assured his life was violent and exceedingly brief."

I stare at her, wondering what the hell she's talking about. 

"The neighborhood he grew up in in Brooklyn was rife with Mob activity. It was not a pleasant suburban existence; it was violent and often very dangerous. And even more dangerous to decline an invitation to join the crews that ran the streets. But that's what Bobby did, instead escaping into military service so he could elude the efforts of his peers to recruit him into another type of army entirely." She's back in scientist mode, her vocabulary going collegiate on me. "He alienated his family and everyone he grew up with when he made that choice. Why do you think he never mentions them?"

I'm just sitting here in disbelief, and the thing that keeps running through my head is not surprise that that's what it was like for Hobbes as a kid, but how everyone but me seems to have known about it. Well, everyone who counts, anyway.

Claire takes my silence as permission to continue. "For Bobby, being cashiered out of the FBI and his fall from grace at all the other Agencies he's worked for was a bit like your various criminal convictions. They stood in the way of what he wanted to do with his life, what he felt passionately about. When the Official approached him about joining the Agency five years ago, he had as little choice as you did, not if he wished to have anything to do with the intelligence field ." she glances at me, trying to see if I'm getting it, whatever 'it' is. "The Agency was the last chance he had."

She swallows a little more wine and then goes on. "Do you know anything about what his first three years in the Agency were like?" she asks, waiting to hear what my answer is. I shake my head, numbly. "His marriage had ended when he left the FBI, and he spent a great deal of those first years stalking his wife, refusing to take his meds, skipping his psychiatric appointments, in general, casting significant doubts on his mental stability."

I nod slightly, vaguely aware of some of this. He'd been in rocky shape when we'd first met in Mexico, two years ago.

"Do you know when he began taking his medication regularly and seeing his therapists again?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow at me.

"What is this, a trick question?" I ask sarcastically. "I'm putting my money on the moment the 'Fish told him it was his way or the highway," I respond.

She shakes her head. "No, Darien. According to his records, he called from Mexico when they found you and Dr. O'Claire outside Arnaud's lab with Huisclos and scheduled an appointment with his psychiatrist. And filled all his prescriptions for the first time in six months that night when he got home."

I sit there, thinking about that, trying to figure out what it means, exactly.

Claire decides to make it easy for me. "He made the decision to try to salvage his career when he thought his behavior might have had something to do with you nearly being killed, Darien. He had almost lost his new partner because he was too busy wallowing in self-pity and lashing out at the very system he so desperately wished to be part of. He may not have known you well at that point, but having you nearly end up dead because he wasn't able to prevent Arnaud from capturing you shook him badly. In his eyes, he'd failed. Failed to protect his partner. He made the decision not to let his difficulties put you at risk and went back to his medications and his therapists. It was having you to worry about that made him start taking care of himself again. You gave him a reason to pull his life together."

I'm speechless, trying to get a grip on an information overload that's threatening to dismantle everything I thought I knew about Hobbes and toss it into the air like so much confetti.

"And the parallels don't end there, Darien. You'd lost Kevin, Bobby had lost his wife. Neither of you had any particularly good reason to trust the Official, except that he left you no choice but to cooperate with him. He recognized those experiences you had in common, and he made the decision to partner the two of you knowing that a partnership between you would either never gel in the first place or it would be unbreakable."

My jaw had dropped open somewhere in there, and the draft finally me snap my mouth shut, but the dizzy confusion spinning between my ears has nothing to do with how much I've been drinking. "You really think that fat bastard thought it all the way through like that?" I ask her, dismayed.

Claire twirls her wineglass by the stem, watching the dark wine lap up the sides of the glass. "You'd be very much mistaken if you thought the Official left _anything_ to chance. Certainly not anything he can control, or predict. Did you ever wonder why he recruited me, of all the qualified scientists out there?" she asks, looking up to meet my eyes for the first time in a small eternity.

Of course I'd wondered. And I'd assumed it was because of the leverage he'd have over her, with her experiment-gone-wrong, Gloria. But now I'm sitting here staring back at her, knowing there's more to it than that, and that she's about to tell me something about herself. Something that doesn't come under the heading of 'need-to-know'. Finally I give a small nod, and she swallows three fast gulps of her wine, almost draining her glass, which clues me in this isn't any more fun for her than it is for me.

"You see, Darien, I'd lost someone, too" she's focused on the little pool of burgundy at the bottom of her glass so she won't have to look at me. 

"I'm sorry Claire," I start, only she turns to meet my eyes, and I can see the sparkle of tears there. Damn. This sucks. "You don't have to tell me this if you don't want to," I assure her.

"No," she shakes her head, trying to smile. "It's past time you knew. I just I just haven't been able to find a way to tell you this without the fear of it damaging our friendship," she says and looks away again.

"Claire, what is it? Who'd you lose? How'd the Fat Man rope you into this mess?" I ask quietly.

"When I was in graduate school, finishing my medical residency and starting my psychology training, I met a brilliant young man. He'd followed almost the identical schooling path I had, and it was just so perfect. We could say things to each other in seconds that would have taken hours to explain to anyone else. It was wonderful and completely unexpected to find someone who thought the exactly the way I did. We started spending most of our time together, and it wasn't long before we moved in together." She glances at me then looks back into the bottom of her glass as if seeing her mystery man in the puddle in the bottom.

"And then a few months after he finished his graduate degree, he got a call. From the government. Of course, I didn't know it at the time, but at any rate, all of a sudden, he was gone. Swept into a top-secret research program that completely took over his life. He promised to call, only within three weeks, I'd been contacted by the DOD to begin work on the bioweapons program that led to my mistake with Gloria. I never heard from him again." 

Her sigh is eloquent and I touch her shoulder. "Then he was an idiot," I tell her, angry that a guy could just walk away from someone like Claire.

"The next time I heard his name was two years ago, when I read about his death," she says calmly, still gazing into her glass as if it was the most fascinating view on the planet.

"Death?" I say, my mouth going dry. "Two years ago?"

She nods, still not looking at me. "He'd been shot. Murdered."

My eyes are riveted on her, blood rushing in my ears, the roaring drowning out anything else. Except her next words. Why the hell I never saw this coming, I'll never know.

"His name was Kevin Fawkes," she tells me, finally looking directly at me, resignation in her expression as if she's expecting me to hit her.

"You. And Kevin." I'm light-headed, dizzy, the concept of my Keeper and my brother together, like _that_, giving me the willies. "You and _Kevin_?" This time it's a question, as if somehow I can make it not real by wishing it away. I pick up my glass and drain the whole thing without stopping. My brain is in deep freeze, trying to process that little bombshell, only the only thing I can focus on is the icky feeling in the pit of my stomach, the one that remembers the casual fantasies I've had of Claire, the wet dreams Damn, it's like some weird kind of incest, thinking about my brother's girlfriend like that.

She nods. "Me and Kevin. I loved him, Darien, more than I think I've ever loved anyone else. And when he left, I pretty much gave up on finding anyone else like him." She swallows the last of her wine and pours some more into both of our glasses recklessly, splashing it onto the coffee table without caring. "When I got the call from the Official, I was at my wits end. I'd been told by General Hammond that there would be no further funding for a cure to fix the mess I'd made of Gloria's life. When the Official called me in to make his proposal, it was the first time I knew where Kevin had gone, and what he'd been working on when he died. The idea of meeting his brother, the one he'd been in such despair over all through the time I knew him in graduate school, made my stomach hurt. But I didn't see a lot of options. Not if I was going to keep my promise to Gloria. So I made the Official swear he wouldn't tell you about my connection to Kevin." She winds down, staring at me as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. "I'm sorry Darien," she adds after a moment.

I sit there, too dazed to react, much less figure out what I think of all this, coming out of the blue the way it has. I can't help wondering how much all of this is gonna hurt in the morning, when the anesthesia has worn off and I'm hacking my guts up over the porcelain throne with the mother of all hangovers.

"It's taken the whole two years I've been on the quicksilver project to realize why he wanted me, specifically," she says after awhile. "He was hedging his bets, Darien. Hoping that if Hobbes couldn't get through your defenses, then maybe I could. It doesn't matter to him which of us you turned to, as long as you came to one of us. As long as you thought of us as your allies rather than his." She sighs and swallows half her second glass of wine. "He was expecting you to develop feelings for me. Romantic feelings. If that happened, then he'd have us each as hostage for the other, with Hobbes thrown in for good measure. Don't you see, Darien? He was counting on the fact that the feelings I'd had for Kevin would make me susceptible to you, holding me to the project as long as you were involved. His plan was to use emotional ties to bind you to the Agency when nothing else would. And it worked. Because here we all are, back in his cash-strapped little trap, only this time, of our own free will."

"Are you?" I ask, my voice shaking. Hell, my hands are shaking, my guts are shaking, I feel as though I've had the ground pulled out from under me.

"Am I what?" she asks sadly.

"Back of your own free will? Or is this some new little game that fat jerk is running on me?" I ask, trying to work it out as I sit there thinking out loud, my brain sluggish and scattered. Claire. And my brother.

"You are my first priority, Darien," she says, and I can hear her trying to stay calm. "If you go back, then I'm coming with you. Not because of Kevin, but because of you. There are things about the gland we haven't even _begun_ to find out, yet, and any number of potential problems might crop up. But you're not the only reason I'm willing to come back to the Agency. Chrysalis has to be stopped, and right now, we're the only ones who even know they exist. And if stopping them means working for Charlie Borden, then it also means working with you. And Bobby. And Alex. My friends. People I care about. To me, it's worth it."

I can barely hear what she's saying over the blood pounding away in my head. Claire. And Kevin. It just doesn't seem real somehow, but slowly the fog in my head starts giving way before the sharp flicker of anger. How many times am I gonna set myself up like this? Trust someone, learn to like them, then have them betray me like this? What's it gonna take for me to learn that lesson? "How much of this did you know when you first signed on?" I ask flatly.

"I knew you were Kevin's brother. I knew Hobbes' emotional background was troubled. The degree that the Official would try to control our lives was speculation. But educated speculation, an education earned at the hands of men like Charlie Borden. He set me up to become your confidante, possibly even your lover, thinking he could manipulate even that part of our lives. But when I knew you'd fallen for Bobby I knew at least that much was beyond his control." She pauses for a long minute, swallowing more wine. "I am not trying to manipulate you, Darien. I'm only trying to give you all the information you need to make a choice. A choice that will govern how you plan to lead your life from this point forward. I'll understand if you find it impossible to trust me after this But" she trails off, and the silence is one I recognize as that of a woman crying.

I sit there thinking about it, my brain stuck in a circular groove that only leaves me exhausted, not enlightened. Claire was in love with my brother. Now she's here because of me, at least partially. The Official set me up, set her up, set Bobby up. Set us all up. Manipulated us like a puppeteer. There has got to be a way to un-rig the game he's playing, if I can only think of one. 

The problem is, after all this, the only thought that will stick in my head is Hobbes. Two years of flirting with the Keeper, two years of longing looks No wonder the guy was so freaked when I wound up falling for him instead. The problem with me being in love with Bobby is that that still gives the Fat Man leverage over both of us. Leverage he doesn't know about yet. But if Claire and Bobby were to if Bobby wants Claire, and she wants him, then they'd be free of him. As long as they both left the Agency, anyway. God. I rest my head in my hands, scrubbing at gritty eyes with the heels of my hands. When did things get so complicated? I've been right here all along, payin' attention, pretty much, anyway, and all of a sudden, my only option is to let both my best friends go. "Claire," I ask, hesitantly. "Are you in love with Bobby? Because if you are" 

She smiles slightly. "Do you think I'd tell you if I were? You saw him first, Darien. I'm not going to get between the two of you."

Okay, that was an unexpectedly erotic image that just flashed across my mind's eye there "You mean you're not?"

"You mean more to him than I ever could," she tells me. 

"I doubt it. The idea of being with me was freaking him out pretty royally last night," I sigh. "Besides, that's not answering the question. Are you in love with Hobbes? Will you take him with you when you go?"

"Go? Go where? I already told you, Darien. If you walk back into the Agency, then I'm coming back with you. And Hobbes would never leave, in any event. So you see, you're stuck with us. Like it or not," she sniffles, and wipes a hand across her eyes, smearing her mascara.

"What if he doesn't want to be stuck with me?" I ask, struggling to keep it from being plaintive.

"Give him time, Darien. If I didn't think there was something special between the two of you, I'd fight you for him. But the way he is with you He's different. Almost as if you make it safe for him to be exactly what he is. The tongue-tied schoolboy disappears with you. With you, he's confident, masculine, charming, funny, sweet Handsome," she glances at me with a little grin, teasing me.

"You sure you're not in love with him?" I ask ruefully. "That sounded a little like jealousy to me."

"Envy. Not jealousy. There's a difference. And of all the people in the world who deserve to be happy, it's the two of you. And if it means you find a way to be together, you can count on whatever help you need from me to make it work."

It's my turn to gulp my wine, trying to get the dryness out of my mouth. "So you think I should make a play for Hobbes?" I ask eventually, feeling awkward about asking my Keeper for advice in my love-life for the first time. Particularly about Bobby.

"I think you should _definitely_ 'make a play for him', as you put it. Because if you don't, I just might!" Claire smiles at me, the weary, wary dread in her face disappearing like shadows in the light of her smile.

"Nuh-uh," I shake my head, letting my own smile creep across my mouth. "I saw him first," I say proprietarily and pour more wine into our glasses, handing her hers and clinking mine against it. "Let's drink to finding a way to beat the Fat Man at his own game," I suggest.

"Indeed!" she agrees. "So when are you going to call Bobby?" she teases, glancing at me over the rim of her wineglass coyly.

"Hey, you just want me to get him over here so's you can grope him," I come back at her with, and she laughs, a little watery, but a laugh.

"Too bloody right," she agrees emphatically. "So go on, call him!"

It goes on like that for another two hours until we've emptied the bottle of wine and Claire is half asleep on my lap. I'm not far behind her as I slide down onto my spine so I can rest my head on the back of her couch, wondering about the chaos my life seems to generate. 

I slip into sleep almost imperceptibly, the events of the last two weeks swirling through my head disjointedly. As they scatter outward into the darkness, all that's left is the stillness of a pair of brown eyes almost the same color as mine. "G'night, Bobby," I mumble as silence swallows me.

fini


End file.
